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This is the introductory poem of Saltian
Seven mortal steps
By Alice Shapiro
Man, iron man formed of soil,
teased, like a willow in the wind
by music and carnal intensity
who are you?
Myths of kingly deeds dissolve with time
moon-gods fade to cinematic phantoms
poised to thrill
and the sun goes down on ancient legends.
Some humans never question
work hard to follow trends
unaware clothes go out of fashion
each season.
Anger, fear,
fierce and ardent feelings
swayed by moon’s elusive passion
push the body toward destruction.
and control this mortal dance:
1. Infancy
An infant’s span
is spittle and a gurgling gut
jerked limbs fighting air
blank eyes, soft bones
sleep.
2. Childhood
A child grows tall
before mind reasons
and the awkward kiss of good and evil
becomes the adolescent’s
clouded mirror.
3. Lover
In a lover’s focus
all narrow and lust,
a beloved’s conquest
is the single touch that matters.
Death’s promise is feared not.
4. Soldier
Here is the land of the quarrel
where a soldier’s stage
is of embattled hero and villain
and in the breast of combat
lies precision.
5. The Justice
Having come to wealth
displeasure dwarfs our joy
until it fizzles.
The couch is more familiar than the sky.
We sigh and grumble.
6. The Pantaloon, Old Age*
Ancient now, we should be wise
from stress, strain, error.
Yet the plan remains a youthful scheme
wasting time, repeating hateful scenes
having love and loved ones leave.
7, Dementia and Death
Slow, hesitant we grope
to propel a weak ambition.
Acceptance overtakes our passions.
Watered eyes, soft bones
sleep
control this mortal dance.
It is a wonder then
that good and beneficial passage
from Age to Age
improves our lot.
Who and what, o mighty soul
has charmed you?
* The Pantaloon–a character in the 16th century commedia dell’arte, portrayed as a foolish old man in tight trousers and slippers. In modern pantomime, the foolish, vicious old man, the butt and accomplice of the clown.
Critique: Responsive writing
It Is not Sweet nor Proper: A Vision of Seven Mortal Steps
By Robert CJ Graves
Today a baby is born in the Coil.
Whose baby? Yours, but not yours,
just like every other baby.
And we see the child now, a1950s boy
leaving the Saturday matinee cowboy serial.
He carries a toy gun, and Christmas will never come.
But soon the smell of autumn brings him to high school
and the scent of that certain girl’s hair sends him
to a warm star and fills him with desire to be a man.
And then his childhood was just a sweet dream.
He awakens a soldier; he carries a machine gun
through jungles to that lonely place/time on the hill.
Back home, parents sigh and fizzle,
their joy killed on some foreign hill, “pro patria.”
“It is not sweet, nor proper,” they mutter.
So another of yours-but-not-yours is gone, and we are old.
We should have been wise for growing so old,
but the angry ways continue.
Dementia and demented acceptance stomps from DC
and Tehran and Beijing and Moscow and London and on
into the next Waterloo, the next Little Bighorn, the next Hiroshima.
